


Yes, and...

by slipgoingunder



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Banter, Canada, Christmas Crack, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Hallmark Movie, Holidays, Improv, No Angst, Oral Sex, POV Rey (Star Wars), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rey POV, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, basically all the types of smut, behind the scenes of hallmark, seriously gets explicit, so many references to hallmark actresses, stream of consciousness crack?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 14:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16745386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipgoingunder/pseuds/slipgoingunder
Summary: Newbie actress Rey lands the starring role in a Hallmark Christmas Movie...but she finds it's not so easy to become a wholesome Hallmark heroine. Enter a mysterious stranger who just might turn out to be her Christmas angel.ORA very smutty, crack-y,hopefullyfunny, behind-the-scenes-ish Hallmark Christmas crack fic with a lot of SEX BANTER. I'm not sure that's a real term, but it applies.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a smutty spin on Hallmark, okay? Don't read this looking for wholesome. IT IS NOT. Please heed my warning. I hope it makes you laugh. 
> 
> I've done a lot of reading on how Hallmark movies are made and I've listened to a lot of Dave and Jeb Aren't Mean. These are my credentials, and I think they are all I need. 
> 
> Oh and when Rey references UCB, [this is what it is](https://ucbtheater.com/), in case you're not familiar with sketch/improv comedy.
> 
> I wrote this as a one-shot, but it got rather long, so I split it in two to make it easier to read. That meant that most of the smut landed in part two. I've also updated the tags, so you know, _please mind them_.

The whole mess is Rose and Paige Tico’s fault. If it hadn’t been for their stupid, brilliant pitch to Netflix last year, Rey wouldn’t be sitting at the hotel bar at the Sheraton, somewhere in Ontario, fretting over whether she’s about to be fired from playing her first character with both a first and a last name.

Is it the Sheraton? Courtyard by Marriott? Doesn’t matter either way. Everything looks the same in this part of suburban Ontario, where at least thirty percent of all Hallmark holiday magic is made.

She kills the time playing a game that’s basically Candy Crush, but technically isn’t, while she’s waiting for her Candy Crush lives to regenerate. Perhaps there’s a Pokemon gym in this Sheraton-Marriott. But Rey really doesn’t want to get the news that she’s being replaced while wandering around the hotel bar flinging Poke Balls into thin air.

Rey has wasted plenty of time waiting for texts. Mostly from men. She’s basically an expert at finding creative new ways to pretend she’s not staring at her phone.

She shouldn’t even be here, considering she barely qualifies as an actor. When Rose and Paige sold their show, _Cobalt Squadron_ , to Netflix, they’d managed to cast most of their Harold team in recurring roles. Rey had lucked out with one of the funnier parts, which turned into a little bit of attention from critics, and her agent started sending her out to read for characters with actual first names. Before that she mostly played dead bodies on procedurals.

This job had been a last minute thing: the rarest kind of victory for an actor. A little Hallmark miracle had just fallen into her lap on a random Tuesday. All because someone—an actual semi-famous former star of some sitcom from the late 90s—had an emergency or conflict or tantrum. Apparently Rey had been on some list of “you don’t know her name, but you’ve seen her on _some_ streaming service” starlets whose agents get called when Alicia Witt or Danica McKellar can’t come through. Someone at Hallmark had been a pretty big fan of _Cobalt Squadron_ , and they’d liked Rey’s “plucky charm.”

And this should have been fantastic news for an actual actor. But Rey isn’t that.

Improv has always been her thing, her first real love. The thrill she gets out of a line that just _hits_ with an audience? Better than sex. It’s her comfort zone: performing on stage, with eight other people.

In improv, no one scrutinizes whether her light brown hair needs more highlights (it doesn’t) or if that shade of eyeliner is too harsh for her hazel eyes (it always is). These are Hallmark priorities. They are the undisputed experts on holiday cheer. There’s probably a proprietary algorithm. And no one wants her to be funny in _Miracle at Snowflake Falls_.

Instead, she has to be Kira Conway, uptight investigative reporter from “the big city” (which one? Who knows!) sent to cover the story of the nation’s oldest Christmas tree-lighting ceremony. Who would believe that Kira falls for the ruggedly handsome Christmas tree farmer, played by familiar-looking-but-not-famous Canadian television actor Poe Dameron? He oozes charm from his exfoliated pores. All the man has to do is put on a plaid flannel shirt and smile while the crew throws some fake snow on him and the movie should be half in the can.

 _Should be_. They’re already running behind, and it’s mostly because Rey isn’t delivering the “Hallmark magic” they’ve come to expect from the McKellars and the Witts and the Loughlins of the world.

The first three days of the shoot have been...challenging. Rey can tell that Ackbar, the director with a perpetual frown, isn’t getting what he describes as “that Lacey Chabert X-factor” from her. The producers actually send her a link to download _The Tree that Saved Christmas_ for reference.

She watches it four times. She runs her lines again. And yet, the Hallmark magic doesn’t manifest.

“You’re fine,” Poe had reassured her yesterday afternoon as they pretended to make a popcorn garland. “Not everyone can be Candace. She makes it look easy, but it’s really the most difficult kind of acting. That’s why she’s the queen.”

_God, to have the delivery and poise of Candace Cameron Bure… The woman is truly hashtag-blessed._

For the past three evenings, she’s skipped dinner and locked herself in her hotel room with the script, memorizing, strategizing, making notations. _Who is Kira Conway? Why is she so passionate about investigative journalism? Why does she hate Christmas? And why is every aspect of her life falling into place except for her love life?_

It goes without saying that neither the script nor the director provide any of these answers. Everyone on set seems unconcerned with her lack of clarity about why her character does...anything.

“Forget it, Rey, it’s Christmastown,” Kaydel, the script supervisor, tells her when she asks why Kira hates gingerbread. “This is how the sausage is made. Maybe just pretend that you _are_ Lacey Chabert playing a character named Kira. That’s probably what they want. Don’t overthink it.” _Ha!_

And now, after another grueling day of Hallmark sausage-making, a Hallmark exec wants to meet with her. Is three days of shooting too far along to get fired? _Probably not_. They might have Autumn Reeser on speed dial for exactly this reason.

 _How brutal that would be. To go back to L.A. having been canned from a Hallmark movie_?

The thought breaks her concentration. _Dammit._ Another not-quite-Candy Crush life snuffed out.

Rey pounds her fist on the table. That was life zero. And still no text about this meeting.

The fist seems to catch the attention of a man sitting just down the bar. _Has he been there this whole time?_ He couldn’t have been, because he’s the kind of man you notice.

She keeps her head still but lets her eyes move left, up and down his body. He’s not _cute_. That’s the wrong word. Her mind takes a few seconds to make sense of his profile before determining that she likes his slightly too-long-too-prominent nose. And his dark hair that’s a confusing neither-short-nor-truly-long length. And his tall, hulking frame.

He could never be an actor with those features. Not an actor on basic cable, anyway. He’s not approachable enough. Maybe that’s why her eyes keep peeking over of their own accord.

She meets a lot of short, cute, gay actors who need to stand on boxes. Like Poe. She meets a lot of shlubby bearded comedy writers who make podcasts no one listens to. Like ninety-percent of the guys she knows from UCB.

 _This_ is...new.

She forces her eyes back to the phone, while casually angling her head in such a way that she _could_ see him looking back. _If he decided to_. Rey takes another sip of her Diet Coke and ends up draining he rest of the glass. It’s July, and despite the air conditioning in the soulless interior of the Sheraton-Marriott-Radisson-whatever, her cheeks are burning.

Rey doesn’t ogle men. Or maybe it’s just something she does in Canada.

She’s about to venture another glance when her phone comes to life. The Hallmark exec, Ms. Holdo, wants to meet her in twenty-five minutes. All right. For the next twenty-five minutes, she is still employed. She can still call herself an actress and not have it be a generous stretch of the truth.

She digs in her wallet for cash to leave for a single Diet Coke. _Is that, like, four Canadian dollars at hotel prices?_ She hasn’t figured out the exchange rate, having spent most of her calories at the craft services table. The gesture catches the stranger’s eye again.

“You seem very passionate about lining up tiny watermelons.”

Finally, an excuse to look directly at him, even though he might be judging her for her boring stress relief coping mechanisms.

“I’m an actress.” _It’s still true for the next twenty-four minutes, so she’s milking it_. “I guess I get worked up pretty easily over nothing.”

He looks pleased.

“Are you getting your check or another drink?”

She presses her lips together. _Twenty-four minutes is actually a pretty long time._

“Maybe one more.”

He motions to the waiter for another round. Rey re-crosses her legs so that she’s pointed in his direction. She’s never actually met someone in a bar like this, but given what’s about to happen, it seems like the time to go for broke.

“An actress. That’s why you’re here in...where the fuck are we?”

“Somewhere outside Hamilton...Ontario? I think it’s Ontario.” _Are Americans expected to know these things?_ “Are you here on business?” He’s not wearing a suit or anything, but it’s late in the day for business meetings. Unless you’re about to be fired from a Hallmark movie. That kind of business can apparently happen any time.

“I’m here for work,” he replies, almost imperceptibly shifting in her direction. Almost.

“Mysterious.” She takes the opportunity as an invitation to not-so-subtly look him up and down again. He’s wearing all black. In July. “Are you a stage hand or a hit man?”

“Something in between stage hand and hit man.”

He has beautiful eyes. Dark. She could look at them for long time. Especially when he’s staring back at her, running them down her face to her lips, to her cleavage and her ass and her legs. Not a leer, exactly. Just enough so that he knows that she knows that he sees everything. It feels good be seen. Particularly when she’s not wearing Kira’s terrible costumes.

She spends most of the shoot sweating profusely in a parka, and when she’s not sporting truly unflattering outerwear, she’s dressed in a wardrobe straight out of Ann Taylor Loft’s 2008 Fall Collection. It’s like the Hallmark costume department acquired the entire stock of a Chico’s outlet store ten years ago and they haven’t rotated anything in or out since then.

Even Rey’s own relatively unexciting outfit (an Anthropologie wrap dress she found secondhand at Buffalo Exchange) feels alluring compared to Kira’s “fun scarves.”

The bartender deposits two drinks on the bar. Brown liquid in a tumbler for him, another Diet Coke for her. And the bartender helpfully says “Diet Coke” as he sets it down.

_Thank you, sir, for verbally highlighting my lack of sophistication._

“Straight edge?” the man asks.

“I don’t drink.” She momentarily considers the role models of her childhood. “Never seemed that fun to me.”

“So…a good girl?”

 _Record scratch..._ A little shiver streaks up her back. Who says that? _Who fucking says that to a stranger? Also...yes, please, and more._

“People pleaser, maybe,” she offers. Casually, but not casually at all.

A look passes between them that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than flat-out eye fucking.

“Are you here for work or pleasure?”

This has never happened to her before, not in the age of dating apps. Is this how it worked before all that? Some guy in black sits next to you and says things that are either completely innocuous or downright obscene?

“I’m filming something here.”

“For work or pleasure?” He raises his glass to his lips.

She _hears_ an exclamation point in her head.

“Work. So far.” The whole back and forth reminds her of an improv game. It’s the same kind of tightrope walk. _Yes, and._

“Have I seen you before?” He tilts his head, looking her up and down again. _Keep your eyes on me._

“I don’t think so. I think I’d remember you.”

“I mean as an actor.” He smirks, just slightly. “Your body of work.”

“Oh.” _Fuck._ “Have you ever seen _Cobalt Squadron_? It’s on Netflix. Along with five hundred other things.” He shakes his head. “I guested on _Chicago Fire_ —er, _Chicago P.D._? _Suits_?”

“I don’t watch TV.”

“Oh.” Of course not. Well, there goes any chance of impressing him with her oeuvre. “I mostly do improv anyway. On stage.”

“What are you filming here? For work?”

She calculates the probability that he’ll be impressed by _Miracle at_ _Snowflake Falls_ or the fact that she’s someone’s third choice to star in a second-tier Hallmark movie, or that she’s about to be fired from it. Quickly, she considers how she could spin it.

_It’s a Canadian independent film about a young journalist who’s lost faith in Christmas, because as a young girl..._

“It’s a Hallmark movie.” It just fucking comes out of her mouth. And as soon as it does, a strange look passes over his face. _Probably disgust._ “I’m shooting a Hallmark Christmas movie. The kind that your mom or your, uh, girlfriend probably watches when you’re not home.”

“I wouldn’t know. ”

“Oh.” _Smooth fact-finding there._

“It sounds very...wholesome. I guess you really are a good girl.”

 _There’s that shiver again._ No one has ever called her a good girl. And it’s _not terrible_. Actually, it’s making her heart race. _Again. More. Say it again._

“It’s just a very formulaic romance. You, know...an uptight professional woman comes to a small town, where she learns to love a slower pace of life because a man in a plaid shirt teaches her about the magic of Christmas. That kind of thing.” She sips her Diet Coke. “I’ve never played a lead role in anything before.” _Or had more than seven lines._

“Big opportunity, then.”

 _Huge_.

“Except, I’m kind of blowing it. It’s only been three days and I might be getting fired.” Again, it just comes out, like the bartender spiked her drink with truth serum.

“Blowing it how?”

“Like, yesterday, I did this scene with this amazing Canadian character actress, Maz Kanata. Have you heard of her?” He shakes his head. “Well, she’s playing the Christmas angel part.”

“There’s a literal angel?”

“No, it’s like a character who’s overly invested in the heroine’s happiness for some completely selfless reason. All these movies have one. Anyway, she said my hands were visibly shaking while we were pretending to make gingerbread cookies. And they only give us like three takes.”

He frowns. _Does he actually care about this?_

“Do you have an acting coach?”

“Kind of.” She had two sessions with Luke Skywalker before getting on the plane, but he mostly just had her do some weird breathing exercises and they never even looked at the script. “He isn’t much help though. God, sorry to lay all this on you. I don’t even know your—”

“You can lay it on me. Maybe there’s something I can do. It sounds like you need a shot of confidence.” He finishes his drink.

 _There’s definitely something he_ could _do..._

“I have no reason to be confident. It’s not like I’m a Lori Loughlin or Catherine Bell.”

“Who?”

“I just mean, I’m a nobody.”

“You’re the star, right?”

“Technically Poe is number one on the call sheet.”

“You should act like it.”

“Okay.” Why does she want to do exactly what he says? “I’m kind of a big deal.”

He nods.

“I bet you are.”

—

Nine-and-a-half minutes later she’s gripping the door frame as he fucks her from behind, against the wall of his hotel room. Rey is out of her goddamn mind. He’s grasping her left hip firmly while reaching for her clit with his right hand and the builder-grade trim isn’t offering nearly enough of a handhold for the momentum of his thrusts. Not that she wants him to ease up. She doesn’t have time for him to ease up. She’s meeting one of the PAs in, probably, four minutes. It’s not exactly convenient to look at her FitBit right now.

“Fuck. Fuck. Oh God. Mmmmm…Don’t stop. Please don’t stop fucking me.”

She’s never done anything—like, _anything—_ like this before. But as the wrongness quotient increases, so does hot-as-hell factor and there’s no way in hell she’s stopping now. The word _slut_ pings gently, and a bit judgmentally, in her brain.

It actually feels amazing. For the first time since she arrived, _Snowflake Falls_ and the stress and the imminent firing seem very far away.

He slows down, seating himself fully and pulling her shoulders back so that her bare back rests against his chest. His clothes are still very much on, and hers are...strewn across the floor near the door. They didn’t make it much further. That’s thirty more seconds she’ll need to collect her stuff when this is over, which leaves...three minutes?

He grabs one of her breasts with his left hand, leaving his right nestled between her legs.

Fingers twisting at her nipple, he tilts his head down, putting his mouth to her ear.

“Did you know how perfectly your tits bounce when you’re getting fucked?”

He grinds against her ass, somehow pushing deeper, drawing a moan from her.

“Maybe we should take a video so I can—oh _fuck_ —I can watch it later.” And what in God’s name is she saying? _Take a video?_

“Yeah? You want to see yourself like this? With me?” He’s toying with her clit in a distressingly unhurried way. _There’s no time for this_. “You _are_ a people pleaser.”

“Actually, I need you to make me come. Like, now. I have a meeting with my producer in— _mmmm_ _oh God_ —three minutes.”

He stills for a moment. “You thought this was going to take three minutes? That’s insulting.”

He smacks her ass, just this side of playfully.

“It’s an important meeting!”

“Relax.”

“Don’t tell me to relax, it makes me more anxious.”

She feels him run a finger down her lower back, just above the crack of her ass. Neither of them move for a moment.

And then there’s another smack. The surprise makes her body jerk.

“Okay, Big Deal.” He pushes her up against the wall again, the texture of the inoffensive gray-beige wallpaper brushing up against her nipples in a surprisingly potent way. “If you come back after. We’re not finished yet.”

“Yes!” Anything if she can just... _get there_. With enough time to get dressed. She’s like a prisoner gorging on a last meal before the firing squad.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

He pulls out slightly before driving back into her again, more rapidly this time.

“Yes...yes, yes…” she babbles her new favorite word in time with each thrust. The _yes_ es devolve into nonsense and mix with the more guttural sounds coming from him.

She arches her back— _almost there_ —as he increases the pace and friction against her clit. _Yes. So close. More...more..more._

“I want to paint your back with my cum.”

“Yes—wait, _no!_ Don’t get cum on me, there’s no time. Just—”

\---

Rey walks down down the Marriott-Sheraton-Hyatt corridor to Ms. Holdo’s suite, smoothing her hair, armed with the knowledge that attending a Hallmark meeting with cum on your dress is likely frowned upon. But maybe it doesn’t matter if you’re about to be fired. _At least it’s a floral pattern and it probably blends?_

An assistant opens the door, seemingly offering condolences with her eyes.

“Rey,” one of the producers says faux-kindly as they all sit down, “we understand that you might be feeling a little overwhelmed. These productions move fast and there’s not a lot of time to get your bearings. We’ve noticed that you seem…nervous. On camera.”

Rey takes a deep breath, reminding herself to take the news with dignity.

“Ackbar has directed fifteen of these films,” Ms. Holdo notes. “We trust him and his process. It’s all about efficiency. We’ve all discussed the options and, at this point, we think the best way forward is to bring in an acting coach to work with you.”

“An acting coach?”

“To help you through the rest of the shoot. At least the next few days,” the other producer adds. “We love your... _everywoman_ quality, but we just need a bit...more confidence from you.”

“I’m staying?” Rey asks incredulously. “I’m not...fired? Are you sure?”

_Dignity. Always dignity._

“Not at this point.”

Not the most reassuring reassurance, but she still has a job.

Then they all stare at her until she awkwardly says “Great!” like this is fantastic news and not proof that she’s not a real actor.

A PA suddenly materializes to escort her from the suite. In the gray-beige hallway of the Sheraton-Marriott-Radisson-Whatever, still reeling from the non-loss of her gig, Rey realizes something.

She doesn’t have the stranger’s number in her phone.

She doesn’t remember the stranger’s room number.

She doesn’t know the stranger’s name.

The stranger is currently in possession of her panties.

—

The thing is, they’re not one of the many normal pairs of panties she owns.

The panties had been a good luck present from Rose, a Hallmark movie aficionado. She’d found the three-pack of holiday underwear at a TJ Maxx last month and it had apparently seemed like fate.

Rey had found it a bit strange that some underwear designer decided to make a trio of thongs reading: “Drop Xmas Package Here,” “When I think about you, I touch my elf,” and “It’s not gonna lick itself,” with an embroidered candy cane.

She’d opened them back in L.A., laughed, and then forgotten about them, until they reappeared this morning in her suitcase. Apparently Rose had snuck them in, because there’s a note reading “in case you’re feeling _lucky_.”

Maybe it _was_ fate because she’s pretty sure she was wearing “Drop Xmas Package Here.”

\------------

To stay on the Hallmark-mandated schedule, they shoot around six pages each day, which, in theory, suits Rey just fine. She’s usually good at working fast, not overthinking it, using her gut. Maybe it’s the improv training. Or just professionalism. It’s why she was _nearly_ called back for a second appearance on _NCIS: LA_ a few years ago.

Of course, she’s never had so many lines. Never had this much blocking to remember. Never had to string lights on a tree, while saying lines, remembering blocking and sweating inside of a ski jacket.

Which is exactly what Rey is doing when one of the producers comes over to say that she can meet the acting coach in her trailer after they finish the scene.

“Acting coach” brings to mind some veteran actress with gray hair who studied with someone who studied with someone who studied at the Actors Studio. Rey wonders if she’ll have to do more of Skywalker’s stupid breathwork or if this old lady will actually look at the script with her and explain why the hell Kira hates Christmas so much.

So it’s a shock when she opens her trailer door to find the man who is currently in possession of her wayward underwear.

 _How?_ Did he track her down? _Is he, in fact, a hit man? Or a stage hand?_ And why doesn’t he seem that surprised to see her?

They stare at each other for a few, long seconds, before Rey panics, pushes the door back open, and exits the trailer. She stands right outside, hand still resting on the handle, half expecting an elderly lady acting coach to appear if she opens the door a second time.

She takes a deep breath and tries it.

 _Nope, still the hit man._ The well-endowed hit man. Sitting on the couch.

She forces herself to speak. It _is_ her trailer.

“Excuse me?”

_Yes, that is definitely how you start an interaction with someone who fucked the living daylights out of you sixteen hours ago: like you’re asking the guy behind the counter to toast your bagel._

“You’re Rey?”

Yeah, he’s not _nearly_ surprised enough to see her.

There are plenty of questions she wants to ask: _Why did you lie? Did you know who I was? Do you do that kind of thing all the time?_

“Can I have my underwear back?” is what comes out.

He looks her in the eye and slowly rises from the couch, like he can’t stand to have anyone looking down at him.

“No.”

—

“What are you doing here?”

“Apparently you need an acting coach.”

“ _You’re_ the acting coach? You?”

“I’m an actor.”

“You’re an acting coach for a Hallmark movie?”

“Acting is acting. I mostly do theater—”

“You lied to me last night.”

“I didn’t know who you were. At first.”

“At first.”

“I took the opportunity to get an objective sense of you before we met as teacher and student.”

“ ‘Teacher?’ You are _not_ my teacher.”

“I also just happened to be at the bar,” he says with a tiny shrug.

“That’s how you get an objective sense of a student? You bring them up to your hotel room and—”

“In retrospect, that was...unprofessional.” His eyes narrow. “Are you going to say something?”

She considers it for a moment.

“I can’t exactly tell Hallmark I fucked some random man I met at a bar. I’m obviously on thin ice as it is. Do you... do this all the time? Is this your thing?”

“No. I’m a real actor, not a coach. I’m just doing a favor for a friend. I just finished a run of _As You Like It_ off-Broadway—“

 

“I meant do you sleep with strangers all the time. I don’t care about your resume.”

“All the time? No. And you should care about my resume because I’m going to help you.”

_It’s both annoying and strangely comforting._

“Why didn’t you tell me your name? What _is_ your name anyway?”

“Ben Solo. Why did you come up to my room and then demand that I get you off in two and a half minutes?”

“I had a meeting, like I told you. Why won’t you give back my underwear?”

“Souvenir. Why do you need holiday novelty panties back?” He takes a step toward her.

“I was trying to evoke the Christmas spirit for the character. Why are you interrogating me, when _you’re_ the one who lied?”

“Why didn’t you come back last night?”

_Oh._

“Well...I didn’t have your name or your number, and I couldn’t remember which room you were in. And...I don’t...do that kind of thing.”

“All evidence to the contrary. Actually I have the evidence.”

“I don’t! I’m not like that.”

“I know you weren’t drunk.”

“No, I just lost my damn mind for twenty minutes. It was a one time thing.”

“Was it?” Something in his inflection hints that he’s not asking about the past.

“Yes…?” _Was it? Was it not a one-time thing?_

“How much time do you have before they need you on back on set?”

“Are you kidding me?” She takes a step back, eyes wide. “We’re not doing _that_ again.”

“So we can start looking at the script.” He picks up the _Miracle at Snowflake Falls_ teleplay _. “_ Such as it is.”

“Oh. You’re not going to make me do breathing exercises or vocal warm ups?”

“We don’t have time for that. And I already know about your vocal abilities.”

 

\--

 

The most annoying part about it is that there’s no escaping him. Ben Solo “observes” her when she’s in front of the camera and pops up in between scenes, wanting to run lines. He stands out like a sore thumb on the set, with his height and his dark clothes.  _ Like an aggravating, yet attractive shadow.  _

And the way he looks at her...it doesn’t seem Hallmark-sanctioned. It’s actually hilarious that the producers think this will make her  _ less “ _ nervous.” 

Most of the afternoon is spent shooting the big gingerbread bake off sequence in Snowflake Falls’ “enchanted ski lodge,” which is actually a conference room in yet another suburban Radisson-Sheraton-Marriott decked out in the bare minimum of tinsel and holly. Hallmark has spared every expense.

When they finish the scene, he has  _ notes. _ Which he gives her as they walk back to her trailer. Well, he walks, she stomps.

“I could tell you needed more takes,” he says as she opens the door and specifically doesn’t hold it for him. “It takes you awhile to warm up. Which I wouldn’t have expected after last night, but—”

“I know my lines.”

“You memorized the words. But did you do any character development homework? Did you figure out Kira’s wound?”

Rey throws open the door to the trailer.

“She doesn’t like Christmas and she can’t find a man.”

“Did you write Kira’s eulogy?”

“Have you noticed that all the signs in Snowflake Falls are in Comic Sans? No one’s putting in their best effort here.”  

“Kira’s eulogy is your homework for tonight.” She opens her mouth to object. “Let’s just run through your next scene.”

“Fine. Is this the one where—”

“Kira,” he whips around and launches into the scene, fully in character as Kyle, the “ambitious” real estate developer who’s trying to buy Liam’s tree farm. “You have to understand that Snowflake Falls is on the verge of a windfall. These hicks may not understand that, but I know you do.” 

“Oh, are we? Uh…” Rey leafs through the script pages, fingers slipping over the bookmark. “Let me just...okay. ‘So it is true? You want to turn the tree farm into a strip mall?’ ”

“Mixed-use retail is the future of downtown Snowflake Falls!”

He doesn’t break character for even a second. Despite the shitty quality of the dialogue, Rey finds herself swept up in the scene. It’s as if he can squeeze blood from a stone.

They run the scene a couple times before Ben declares himself satisfied. When she heads back to the set (yet another conference room in the Radisson-Sheraton-Marriott dressed up to look like Kyle’s office), the scene goes smoothly. They’re done in three takes. 

And Rey can’t help but note that the actor playing Kyle, a nice guy named Snap who does Canadian sitcoms, just isn’t as great as Ben had been.

Of course, Snap probably wouldn’t lie in order to fuck her against the wall of his hotel room. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, everyone. Once more with feeling: mind the tags. Because I know how some of you feel about...banter. (Srsly though, mind the tags and probably don't read this at work.)
> 
> Oh, and perhaps I should have said: "yes, and" is one of the main tenets of improv. There's even a [wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yes,_and...) page about it.

The next day, after getting to hair and makeup at 5 a.m. and into a truly hideous, fuzzy green Santa’s Helper costume with matching elf boots for this morning’s scene, she throws open her trailer door to find Ben waiting on the couch. 

“Well if it isn’t Daniel Day-Lewis.” 

“He wishes. Where’s your homework?”

“Right. Kira’s eulogy.”

Rey pulls out her phone, muttering “prick” softly, but probably loud enough for him to hear. 

She clears her throat, holding the device out in front of her.

“Kira Conway died as she lived: chasing down a story. Everyone told her not to go after the Ecuadorian cartel, but Kira knew that Inigo Montoya needed to be investigated. Who could have predicted that her flight to Bogota would be...”

She continues pretending to read from her phone, as Ben listens with raised eyebrows. _Sometimes improv comes in handy._

He stops her when Kira cracks a Nigerian prince scam wide open. 

“Very entertaining. You have a vivid imagination. But you don’t know a damn thing about Kira. And Bogota is in Colombia.”

Then he pulls his sweater over his head and Rey allows herself the count of three to look at his chest in the snug t-shirt. _There’s...a lot to look at._

“Eyes up here, Big Deal,” he says, nodding up. 

“The A/C is on full blast,” she mumbles.

“Your...technique…” He says it like he’s not convinced it’s the right word. “Where did you say you trained?”

“Nowhere. Where did you _train_?”

“Yale Drama School.”

“Oh.” _Fuck._ “Well, I mean, I didn’t really study acting. Like _acting_ acting. I do improv, I _teach_ improv sometimes at UCB and I do some sketch stuff. You know, ‘yes and…’ Like...comedy?”

“Are you questioning if I’m familiar with the concept of comedy?”

“I’ve never seen you laugh.”

“The way you deliver your lines is interesting.”

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It’s not.” He stands up, which she hates because he becomes taller, and more undeservedly authoritative. “But it’s better than being boring.”

“Well, Kira _is_ kind of boring. I’m just working with what’s in the script.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Your job is to find what’s _not_ in the script.”

“There’s a lot that’s not in the script of a Hallmark movie. Most of it gets replaced with hot cocoa.”

“The script isn’t a sacred text. It’s a starting point. You need to read between the lines.”

“The only things you’ll find between the lines of _Miracle at Snowflake Falls_ are pine needles and royal icing. Maybe an ad for Kay Jewelers.”

“Don’t improv performers make up scenes from nothing?”

“There’s usually a prompt, like ‘What if...your character thinks they’re in a martial arts film.’ Something like that. ” 

“Then give yourself a prompt. What if…” He looks around the trailer. “Kira just needs to get laid?”

“Oh yes, I love when I get that particular prompt from a man in the audience," she replies flatly. "It happens so rarely.”

“Can you imagine Kira stuck in this backward town with all these boring, righteous do-gooders who only care about their stupid tree-lighting ceremony? She’s frustrated.” 

“Sexually?” 

“Obviously. But why?”

“What if she’s cursed? Maybe she didn’t drop any change in the Salvation Army kettle one year, and a supernatural bell ringer cast a spell forbidding her to have sex while the advent calendar is in progress?”

“That would definitely explain why she hates Christmas.”

“Maybe she spends every December dressing up for all these holiday parties and never going home with anyone because the curse always gets in the way.”

“Very frustrating.”

“That could be why she volunteered for this assignment...to get away from all the temptation in the city.”

“But then she meets—”

“Liam.”

“—Kyle.”

Rey chokes out a laugh.

“You haven’t watched many of these, have you? Kyle doesn’t like Christmas or dogs or carolers. Kira would never end up with him.”

“I didn’t say anything about ‘ending up.’ Maybe she wants Kyle to sweep everything off his desk and bang her in his office. Something to take the edge off.” 

“She does not.” Rey feels the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead. 

“Why do you think Kira eats an apple in that lunch scene? _Forbidden fruit._ It’s biblical symbolism.”

“Kira is uptight. She’s not down to fuck a villain. There are no bad girls in Hallmark.”

“You don’t have to wear a sign on your forehead that says ‘bad girl.’ Just use it as an ingredient. I promise you, Kira becomes ten times as compelling if you play her a few shades darker. With some boldness. Wants. Desires. Doesn’t Kira have desires?” 

“Of course.” Rey becomes aware that she’s breathing very hard and Ben is standing very close.

“So take the prompt. Isn’t ‘yes and…’ the first rule of improv?”

“I could...try it. As an ingredient.”

He gently reaches for her fuzzy green shoulders and looks into her eyes. _Another rule of improv is “go against the voice of reason.”_

“Underneath that Santa’s Helper costume is a fucking goddess who wants to be worshiped.” 

She swallows hard.

“Yes, and...”

His hands find their way to the hem of the costume, hanging just above her fingertips. Suddenly her sparkly tights feel like the itchiest, least comfortable stockings she’s ever worn. 

Maybe Ben can read her thoughts because he runs his thumb under the waistband.

“Off?” 

She kicks off the stupid pointy-toe elf boots.

“Off,” she says, nodding enthusiastically. “Now.”

Rey tosses her script and her phone down on one of the chairs. Santa’s Workshop is the furthest thing from her mind. 

Ben tugs the tights down over her ass, before putting his hands around her waist and lifting her up to sit on the little square tabletop, letting her legs dangle slightly off the ground. He continues rolling the tights down, all the way off and inside-out, tossing them aside carelessly.

“I need those back,” Rey points out, thinking of the many ways in which a costume assistant could punish her for losing those ugly stockings. 

“Kira wouldn’t even care about her tights,” he insists. 

“That’s a character choice.”

She leans back on her elbows, Ben hovering over her. The costume rides up, not that it matters now. He kisses her on her cheek, her lips, her neck, moving lower, centimeter by centimeter (this is Canada, after all). The costume is an obstacle. It’s far too complicated to remove, so he just skips right down to her inner thighs. _That works, too._ Lifting up her skirt, he pauses for a moment and then raises his head.

“Your taste in lingerie is really...something.”

“Huh?”

“ ‘It's not gonna lick itself?’ ”

 

“Oh”. _Shit_. “No, these are a joke. My friend got them at T.J. Maxx—”

“Is this an attempt at method acting?”

“Shut up.”

“I think I’m going to have to confiscate these, too.” 

“What?”

She feels him pull the panties down her legs, but they don’t seem to get tossed on the floor with the tights.

“Someone could get the wrong idea about you. I thought you were a good girl.”

“ _You_ have the wrong idea about me.”

“You keep saying that. And yet…” He grabs her legs and pulls her forward, closer to the edge of the table. 

“This isn’tme.”

“So who are you, Big Deal? Are you a good girl? Or are you like Kira?” He kneels, sliding the backs of her thighs onto his shoulders. Thank Christ she recently got the most thorough and painful wax of her life.

“Kira’s a slut,” she finds herself saying. 

“Ben’s into it.” 

_Fuck yes he is._

“I’m so glad Hallmark hired you—” _so wrong_ “—to coach me.” _Wrong wrong wrong_. 

“ _Yes, and_ we just found your character arc.” He nibbles near the top of her inner thigh. _Closer. Yes and yes and..._

“What about discovering the spirit of Christmas?” _Closer._ “Mmmnnhhh. Keep going.” 

“That’s exactly what we’re doing.”

She feels him breathe. It tickles just enough to make her recoil slightly, but he pulls her back toward his mouth with a firm grip on her legs. 

Sitting up a tiny bit more on her elbows she looks down, feeling shy, but also needing—like, really _needing_ —to see his head buried between her thighs. To have that mental picture for later. 

“Holy fuck.” She doesn’t mean to say that out loud but it comes out. 

Rey could practically come just from the sight of him, on his knees, going to town on her, hungrily circling her clit with his tongue.

She manages to keep her moans subdued, since the trailer next door is occupied by Poe and he could be in there meditating or quietly napping or some other Hallmark-sanctioned activity. _Unlike this Cinemax-sanctioned activity_. 

Ben tries out different strokes, up and down, one side and the other, until he lands on some magical combination of pressure and angle that makes her legs shake. 

She cries out. There’s no way to stop it. 

_I am a fucking goddess_. In a Santa’s Helper costume. With a call time. And she doesn’t know what time it is because her character doesn’t wear a watch. But it doesn’t matter right now because this man is… _worshipping at the altar of my pussy. Again._

_Because I am becoming Kira and this is Christmas-fucking-magic._

Rey lies all the way down on the table, arching her back, trying to relieve some of the tension that’s building. _Slow down your breathing or you’ll come too fast_ , says the angel she usually listens to. _If you come now, there might be time to come again_ , says the devil. 

God, the devil really has fantastic ideas sometimes.

“Just like that,” she says, sitting up a bit to reach for him. Usually she just lies back and takes whatever the guy is willing to give. But this new iteration of Kira is an inspiration. 

Rey tugs on his hair, pulling his head back just enough.

“Make me come.” She’s never said that like a command before, but it feels good. _Great, in fact._

Ben slides a finger inside her, moving in short, rapid motions against her g-spot before diving back in with his tongue on her clit. 

Fuck Poe and his lunchtime meditation. 

_Kira wouldn’t care who hears this._ So Rey moans as loud as she wants, her climax building into a powerful tension, low in her core.

Getting closer by the second.

_Almost...almost…please...just a little more..._

There’s a sharp series of knocks at the trailer door, but they don’t stop as an innocent Hallmark production assistant shouts something about her call time. _So wrong. Unprofessional. Slut._

Something throbs. A string of nonsensical words mixed with obscenities leaves her throat as a euphoric rush courses through her body. _Holy shit_. 

One of their phones is buzzing. Neither of them moves to check what it is. 

After what seems like a minute, Ben gives her thighs a squeeze and stands up, cupping around her face with his hand, and pulling her head forward, apparently for a kiss.

“Don’t.” She turns her cheek. “I just came from the makeup trailer.” 

“Your eyeliner is running anyway.” _Shit._ “You’re going to taste yourself before you leave here.”

—-

There are a few brief moments of potential humiliation when Rey needs to ask the costume assistant for a different pair of tights and a spare pair of underwear. She claims a period-related accident, which is the one time having a period has ever come in handy. 

But once her makeup is touched up (she had to insist on doing that herself), she marches onto the set feeling likea fucking _boss_. Or, more precisely, feeling like investigative journalist Kira Conway, sophisticated city girl about to break an explosive story about nation’s oldest tree lighting ceremony...while dressed like an elf. 

_Of course, Kira’s journey to find the magic Christmas has gotten much more compelling._

It’s a crowd scene, which means Hallmark sprung for roughly eighteen extras, all sweating in ski jackets in the summer heat. 

Poe is wearing Liam’s Santa costume, and even though the fake white beard obscures half his face, Rey can tell he’s holding in a comment. 

Ackbar comes over to give a bit (and it really is just the tiniest bit) of direction and they hold their positions while one of the grips tweaks something with the lights. 

“I didn’t realize I was in the presence of a ‘fucking goddess,’ ” Poe says, under his breath. 

Had she said that out loud? 

_Kira would own it._

She looks him square in the face: “Now you know.”

He raises his Santa eyebrows. _Is this method acting? This is probably method acting!_

When they film the first take, Rey can feel a difference immediately. Maybe it’s not quite on par with Queen Candace, but her voice doesn’t have that shaky quality this time. There’s some kind of _snap_ to Kira that hadn’t been there for the first few days of shooting. Even the chemistry with Poe is on point without needing multiple takes to warm up. She feels very warm already.

They do a couple more takes for safety but, according to Ackbar, that’s all they need. The 2nd A.D. tells her that, in true Hallmark fashion, Ms. Holdo saw the whole thing and seemed “very pleased with the efficiency.” _A high compliment indeed._

But the person whose reaction she cares about most is standing off to the side, easy to find because he’s several inches taller than the people around him. It would barely qualify as the slightest hint of a smile on anyone else, but Rey thinks she recognizes a grin on his face. 

—-

That evening, for the first time since she arrived, Rey decides not to eat a sleeve of Saltine crackers alone in her room while watching _The Tree that Saved Christmas._ (It _has_ occurred to her that this is likely how much of Lacey Chabert’s output is consumed.) 

Instead, she takes another page out of the Kira playbook and asks one of the PAs for Ben’s room number. Ironically, the room is 333, which would have been really fucking easy to remember, had she thought to look while she was putting her flats back on in the hallway the other night.

Showing up with her script and a pizza, asking for help with tomorrow’s scenes, feels like a bold move, even though it’s probably impossible to be forward with someone who’s given you two orgasms in the past 48 hours.

He doesn’t appear to be at all surprised at this particular room service call. In fact, he seems rather pleased with himself when she pushes the pizza box into his chest. 

Ben plays all the other parts opposite Rey. He gives her different prompts for each of the scenes, usually involving some kind of ridiculous sexual subtext. Suddenly, royal icing, egg nog, and snowballs take on wonderful new connotations. 

But he also makes some genuinely helpful suggestions. He recommends adding some specific gestures to better define Kira’s physical presence. So they come up with an idiosyncratic Kira walk, a few Kira nervous tics, and even a distinctive way for Kira to incompetently wrap presents (because “Kira would know fuck-all about gift wrap when she first shows up in Snowflake Falls”). 

It’s almost midnight when Rey suggests that Kira would also have a particular way of going down on a man. Ben agrees that it would be very worthwhile to explore Kira’s abilities in this area. 

She backs him up against the wall and drops to her knees as he quickly unbuttons his pants. Rey summons a little bit of the Kira-sex-goddess spirit just before she takes his cock into her mouth, because _goddamn, it’s, well…imposing._

There is definitely something to this Kira mindset, because she’s not getting that panicky-choking feeling even when the tip nudges the back of her throat. For once she’s not just _getting through it_. It’s a thought bubble that has entered her mind on previous occasions; truthfully, it’s never been her favorite thing. But this time she’s hungry for it—to exert this power over him. She wants her eyes to water...to show him how deep she can take him. _Make him lose a little bit of control._

He reaches for the back of her head, moving her mouth up and down the shaft, watching as she lets him fuck her face. She listens to him curse softly, feeling a pleasurable little tingle of pride, before focusing on the head and starting to suck in earnest. His breathing grows ragged. _Because of me; I’m that good._

And Kira always swallows. 

The next day’s scenes go even better. 

\---

On day seven of the shoot, Ben’s agent calls about an audition back in New York, and the Hallmark producers are satisfied enough with Rey’s performance to let him go and save some money. And even though Rey is no longer worried about Ms. Holdo calling up Allison Sweeney as a replacement, it’s hard to fathom eight more shooting days without Ben and his inspirational Kira head canons. Or head, in general.

They run through her remaining scenes, for a final time, in Rey’s trailer, incorporating some of the new Kira-isms. This is the fun part: rehearsing, finding the character, making weird choices and trying them out without the judgment of a camera and an impatient crew. Acting opposite Ben makes Rey believe she belongs here. It’s probably how Lacey Chabert feels all the time. 

“It’s like...one of those memes where something’s hiding in plain sight in a logo or a picture and as soon as someone points it out, then you can’t unsee it,” she says, flopping down on the couch. “You flipped a switch or something with these prompts. I love Kira now. I didn’t realize there was so much there beneath the surface.”

She gives him an easy smile, but his expression is hard to parse.

“Rey,” he begins, taking a seat next to her, “there’s nothing beneath the surface. You know that, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“The script was written in two hours by a seventy-year-old man named Bob. There’s no subtext.” 

“But _you_ told me about the subtext.”

“To provoke you. Get you to loosen up. Have some fun with it.”

“Loosen up? What about the apple?”

“Sometimes an apple is just an apple.”

“Then why is Kira always sucking on candy canes?”

“Probably because Ackbar is a perv and Hallmark has a product licensing deal with a candy company.”

“You just invented all that stuff about Kira’s wants and desires?”

“It’s a terrible script. It seemed like you needed the seed of something to make it interesting. Like an improv prompt.”

“I didn’t _ask_ for a prompt.” She shoves back a bit on the couch. 

“You have raw talent. Imagination, good instincts, timing. You just needed a shot of confidence.”

“Are you implying that you fucked a shot of confidence into me?”

He looks thoughtful.

“Yes. Well...unintentionally. But it was just a crutch. And you don’t need it anymore.” She frowns at him, replaying some of their conversations over the last few days. “You look disappointed.”

“The weird sexual subtext was literally the only thing that excited me about playing Kira. I wish you hadn’t told me.”

“Your performance is better than Hallmark deserves. Before I leave, I need you to stop treating ‘Kira’ like she’s a persona you’re inhabiting. _Rey_ is the goddess.” He tosses the script aside and slides closer to her.

“She is?” 

He nods, reaching out to take her chin in his hand, tilting her face up. 

“She’s kind of a big deal. She lets me take whatever I want.” He kisses her softly, leaving her wanting more. “And vice versa. She’s a bit of a slut, actually.”

“I’m really not. This has never happened with anyone else. Maybe you’re the slut. You’re definitely an extremely unprofessional acting coach.”

“You’re the one with the tacky Christmas underwear.” He runs his hand down her back, to the waistband of her jeans. “Again?”

“They came in a three-pack. And I actually like the way they fit, okay? I still want them back.”

“No.”

“Why?”

He shrugs.

“They belong to me now.”

“Trying to save money on Canadian souvenirs?”

“Yes, _and_ …there’s a Christmas memory I want to make. Back at the hotel. Before I leave.”

“ ‘Yes, and,’ huh?”

“ _Yes, and_ bring that giant red bow from Santa’s Workshop.”

\---

Things aren’t so rushed this time when they get back to the Sheraton-Courtyard-by-Marriott-Hyatt-Place. There are no call times, no meetings, no innocent Hallmark production assistants. No more Kira. 

No more clothes. 

They get in the shower together and wash off the glitter and fake snow that permeates the set. 

They even make it to the bed. 

The Christmas memory Ben intends to make is very specific. And Rey offers to give him whatever he wants before he leaves. 

He has her lay down on her stomach and he ties the giant red ribbon from Santa’s workshop around her waist, so that she looks like a present...just one pair of tasteless Christmas panties away from being naked. 

He has her wait like that for what feels like a long time before he takes out his phone and walks around the bed, looking for the best camera angle. 

“Don’t tell me...” she says. “What you really want to do is direct?”

“The only thing I want to direct right now is you. The camera’s over here. Don’t look at it. For now at least.”

“I know not to look at the camera.” She watches as he mounts his iPhone to the desk chair, using some kind of clamp. _Did he steal it from a grip?_ “Do you trust me?”

“You know, I really have no reason to. You’ve lied to me, like, three different times.”

“Not about anything important.” He approaches the bed again, holding something in his hand. “If you want to stop you can say…‘mistletoe.’ ”

“How festive.”

“Well, I’ve always hated Christmas.” 

“Same.”

“Until now.”

“Same.”

He holds out one of those really thick candy canes next to her face. The kind that take several days to get through. _How much random shit did he take from the set?_

“Put this in your mouth.”

“God, you’re a prop master’s worst nightmare. Or did you strike your own product placement deal with a candy company?” She tears off the plastic wrapper off and tosses it aside.

“I want you to have your mouth full and I can’t be two places at once.”

“Where are you going to be?”

“Unwrapping my present.” He runs his hand down her back to the waistband of panties in question. “ ‘When think about you I touch my _elf_ ’? Is that a promise?”

“I’ll probably touch my _elf_ every day once you’re gone. Maybe several times a day.”

“That’ll get you on the naughty list.”

The candy cane actually tastes fucking delicious, not that she’s able to focus much attention on it. Because he’s unwrapping his present with his mouth. 

She’s never had anyone lavish this much attention on her ass before, but apparently this is a thing she likes because she can feel herself getting wetter by the second. 

Ben drags the panties down her legs and completely off before kissing his way back up the backs of her thighs and gently biting the roundest part of her cheeks.

“Get up on your hands and knees,” he says, moving her legs apart and reaching around for her clit as she does as he asks. He kneels behind her. “Do you like this? It feels like you like this.”

She moans into the candy cane. 

He places his other hand at the top of her crack and softly strokes to relieve some of her tension. 

“You’re good. So good. We’ll ease into it.”

Of course, hearing that makes her tense up in anticipation and it takes a little more time and more encouragement to calm back down. 

“I love that you’re giving me this.”

Ben moves his finger down lower, kissing her back and shoulders. There’s a cool, slippery sensation and she gets in her head for a moment wondering if maybe he was feeling lucky before he left for the shoot and optimistically popped lube in his bag. _Maybe he always has it._

He eases in incredibly slowly, just the tip at first, whispering more praise, rubbing her clit, encouraging her to relax into it without using that particular word.

“Breathe. Slow deep breaths. You’re doing so great.”

 _It’s a lot._ She doesn’t say “ow,” even though it actually hurts a bit before it...just doesn’t. 

“You’re so good. Taking me so well. Just a little bit more. Don’t neglect the candy cane. Just a couple more inches.”

“A couple more?” is what she tries to say with the candy cane in her mouth, but it’s probably incomprehensible.

And after a little while, and a lot of relaxing, it just feels like this incredible fullness. A sexual accomplishment. They pause for moment, acclimating, catching their breath. 

“Can I move? We’ll start really slow.”

“Mmm hmm,” she agrees, feeling rather pleased with this ability that she would have attributed to Kira yesterday. _It’s me. All me._

Ben eases out and back in with slow, careful movements, giving her time to adjust to the new sensation. At some point she takes over touching herself, needing to be in control of something. The candy cane lies somewhere on the sheet, making a mess.

Once she gets more comfortable, he starts moving faster, with less restraint, and Rey finds herself matching his rhythm, pushing back, urging him on. 

“Fuck, just like that,” he says grabbing her shoulder. 

Sensing that he doesn’t have long, she stops holding anything back and focuses on her clit. 

“I wanna come with you like this,” she says, breathlessly, turning her head back to look at him.

“God, you’re perfect. So perfect. I want you to come so hard. I want to feel it.” 

The words bring her right to the edge. _Come hard for him. Make him feel it. So perfect so perfect so perfect so..._ She arches her back and peaks with a high-pitched whine thinking about watching the video later. Or Ben watching it later...

While she’s coming down, he gathers up her hair into his hand, moving it over her shoulder. After a few more thrusts, he pulls out and a few seconds later she feels ropes of warm, sticky cum all over her back. 

Rey isn’t positive, but she thinks she hears him mutter something about a “White Christmas” before pressing his finger into her back and dragging it through his spend like he’s writing something.

He gets up and reaches for his phone, undoing the clamp, before returning to the bed. She hears the little digital click of the camera shutter.

“What are you...did you just write your name?”

“In case anyone asks what I did in Canada,” he replies. “You’re like the world’s most delicious gingerbread woman right now.”

Ben collapses next to her, on his back, and reaches to pull her on top of him.

“Your ass is the best present I could ever ask for.” He tilts his chin up for a kiss. It’s almost pure and tender enough to be a Hallmark kiss. Almost. “Thank you.”

“Uh, don’t forget to send me the video,” she reminds him. “I might need it. Later.”

“That’s your present. See, we both got what we wanted.”

“It’s really was a miracle at Snowflake Falls.”

They lie there quietly for a minute, sated and sleepy.

“Ben?”

“Hmm?”

“I just realized... _you_ were the Christmas angel all along. Selflessly helping the heroine, even though you had no real reason to do so.”

“If that’s the definition, I am way too selfish to be your Christmas angel.” He strokes her hair. “You know, if there _is_ something supernatural about this whole thing, it’s probably your underwear. I think they’re actually issuing instructions. We’re helpless against the commands of your holiday novelty panties. That’s why I have to keep them. Can’t risk you wearing them around anyone else.”

“I guess Rose was right. They _are_ lucky.”

“ ‘The Christmas Panties.’ We could probably pitch this back to Hallmark. It writes itself.” 

Rey’s head snaps up. 

“Hallmark movies are for the gentlest of people. But...how do you feel about Netflix?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for indulging me this silliness. I truly love Hallmark films, so please know that all my teasing was done with the utmost affection for Queens Candace and Lacey and the entire nation of Canada!
> 
> I actually started this as a gift fic and it got too smutty/crack fic for that purpose. Someday I will write something gentle. I hope.
> 
> And, yes, _now_ I will get back to working on [Doing the Unstuck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877074) and catching up on fic recs <3

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [ tumblr ](https://slipgoingunder.tumblr.com/) or [ twitter ](https://twitter.com/slipgoingunder)


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